Muggle Daddy
by Lexen
Summary: Hermione's father struggles with what it means to be the daddy of a witch.


**Disclaimer****: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. J.K. Rowling created it all, and no money is being made from this work of fan fiction.**

**AN****: I have no beta, and all mistakes are mine. This ficlet was written for the "Childhood Sure Is Something" challenge on HPFC. It is about Hermione's father trying to come to terms with being the daddy of a witch.**

I thought I had this Daddy thing all figured out. She was my little girl, no matter how big she got, no matter old she got, no matter what she did. She was mine to guide and to guard, to protect and to love. She was her mother's shadow, but she was my princess. I loved every part of her, from her bushy hair to the books she was always reading. My daughter's favorite place in the world was the library, and I didn't care. I loved her for it, all of it. I accepted all of it. And I swore I always would.

So why can't I help her now?

I'm sitting here in a chair beside her bed, and her mother is sitting in the chair beside me. As my wife dozes and Hermione tosses and turns in a restless sleep, I rub my eyes and watch my daughter.

It happened again today. Strange things have always happened to Hermione, ever since she was little. Her favorite toys would fly across the room for no reason. Channels on the television would change by themselves. We attributed it to sunspots and wind currents.

But when she was six, Hermione cut a dozen butterflies out of construction paper and then brought them to life. When she was eight, her teacher told us, with a disbelieving shake of her head, that Hermione had appeared to create a snowstorm on the school playground in the middle of spring to try and impress the bullies who made fun of her intelligence. There were other incidents over the years, and we always just laughed them off.

We never realized that Hermione didn't. We never realized that our daughter thought she was a freak, an aberration (one of her favorite words).

And today, a simple argument with her mother over whether she could wait till after finishing her book to do her chores turned into an incident of epic proportions. Dishes, pillows, and pictures flew around the living room like confetti…and Hermione did not touch a single thing. I couldn't even get close enough to shield my daughter so I caught her mother instead and implored Hermione to calm down, suspecting that her emotions had triggered the whirlwind. I talked her through the breathing exercises we had used with her when she had asthma as a young child, and she eventually calmed down. And just like that, everything put itself back together, even the broken dishes, and returned to where it had begun.

I crawled across the floor, and I hugged my shaking daughter in my arms, held her like I hadn't done since she was nine and had watched a movie she wasn't supposed to and woke up with nightmares. I carried her up the stairs and tucked her in as though she was three years old again and had fallen asleep at the dinner table.

My daughter cried herself to sleep. She asked me if I think she's losing her mind, and I told her that of course she's not.

I worry that I'm wrong. I worry there's something really wrong with her.

I worry that I'm right. I worry because if that's not what's wrong with her, than I don't know what is.

And I worry because I can't be my little girl's hero, her protector, because I can't fix this. For once in my life, I don't know how to make it better.

I wake the next morning to the ringing of the doorbell. It's Saturday morning, and my wife and I can't imagine who could be at the door this early. It's my daughter's eleventh birthday, and it's not shaping up to be any sort of day to remember.

I bundle my daughter into a blanket and carry her down the stairs. My wife opens the door.

There's an older woman on the other side. Her dress is prim and old-fashioned, and she wears glasses with her hair in a severe bun. But what catches my attention is the slender wooden rod she holds in her hand. I exchange a glance with my wife.

It seems our answer has just arrived on our doorstep. And when the woman finally leaves, my daughter is practically dancing in the hallway as I pick her up and swing her around.

"You may be a witch, but you're still my little princess," I assure her. She beams.

"And you're still my hero, Daddy. Forever and ever."

I hand her into her mother's arms and look away, wondering how a muggle father is supposed to protect his witch daughter.

Will my love really be enough?

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